One-off Summertime

 She would be telling this story to George Noskov, surrounded by empy coca-cola cans. To George, the one she used to call a misogynist, a lunatic, sometimes a dreamer. She will regret all that she said after his death, or rather all the other things that she didn't say. Especially that she would never tell that story to anybody else, because who would like to listen to so ordinary a story, so sad, so elusive that it seems to be untrue. But she doesn't care whether anyone believes it or not, for there is no way to tell it the way it was, with all the smells, the colours, the music it brought, the wind it brings when it comes back. Anyway, it doesn't matter if someone understands it, as there is no more such summer, and it never will be. That one was the only one, a one-off summer in the world, and it has already passed away, not leaving anything which could be picked up by someone else. It was only her who could understand, her and somebody else, another her in another part in the world. You see, once a time, one summer, two girls simultaneously had fallen in love. A blonde and a brunette, born only few weeks apart, only few miles away. For neither of them it was the first time, but all the loves are the only ones in the world for their own summertimes. Years later, only one of them will remember. 

 The feeling which will come along with it will be like a memory of a time loop. She won't be talking about it, as it is not a memory which might fit into today's reality. Only sometimes she will be wondering if it still exists, that bench outside the old bus station in Bristol, if any trace of her memory still sits there, awaiting. 

 The other girl will be getting married. She will change the spelling of her name- it used to sound Russian, now it's just a name. On a picture she will stay just as beautiful and untouched, like experiences had gone past her, not leaving a mark on her shoulder, no trace on her face. She will look happy. 

 Or maybe it is because they have lived so many miles apart for so many years, they both appear to each other just as images, faces from the past, and they cannot relate to each other anymore. Or perhaps for both of them, the summer wind has never stopped, and there will always be parts of them, paused within a loop of one-off summertime. Perhaps.

 The memory will bring them together on one evening, seven years and hundreds miles away. It would be one of them looking for the other, and the second one answering within seconds. Through all these years they have not grown indifferent or unaware of each other, like their souls were right there, waiting outside the loop. In their paused smiles on old photographs, for a moment, they will find a way to resume their one-off summertime, and to be drawn back, like it was all they've been ever waiting for.

 The story is a piece from my new short story, not yet completed, but just a sketch as I am trying to get back on track with writing. Soon I am to start an online creative writing course. Join me in this journey!

On the run- Looking for Yesterday

 A Journey to Yesterday- story in chapters. Chapter 1

Back in Yesterday I had a dreamy flashback of a perfect morning: it was in some coffee shop, with a full cup of course, starting to write and feeling just so fresh and full of energy. Somehow, it was purely a flashback to the wonderland as it's 2016 and it still basically never happened. But since I still see it, like I once saw it Yesterday, I am packing my bag and run out on a mission: I'm looking for Yesterday! Anybody out there wants to help me?

 Recently I have undergone a lot of changes which not necessarily served me well in a matter of 'future'. To be frank, I stopped writing even my personal diary. There is this space in between whatever's in your head and a piece of paper. What's in this space, sometimes turns to be hard to chew. In regards to whatever had been happening in my head, I regularly practise mindwriting. And on some level, it works just as fine as if one had swallowed three bottles of whisky and finished it off with a pack of Gauloises. Oh, and RebBull of course, always RedBull. 

 But mostly mindwriting has one quality none other activity really has: it brings up images which had been previously deeply buried and forgotten. I had this flashback while walking through Drury Lane some other day: suddenly I saw faces of two of good friends of mine next to me, laughing and crossing the street towards Holborn Station. The point is, I have never been there with these particular friends, surely not at that time of the year either that time of the day. Then I realised that mindwriting can be dangerous: it may actually bring over the memories of somebody else. 

 Thrilled by my recent discovery, I decided to jump onboard of a time machine and find my real Yesterday. I was hoping it was going to simply lay down behind some corner of my mind, resting and waiting for resurrection. But the truth, my dear readers, turned to be more complicated. As usual. 

 After crossing several avenues of my mind, I finally reached the door of Mr Frank. I kept repeating myself that if he still keeps compulsively holding his nail file I would just leave. But Frank, my once regular imaginary therapist, opened the door wearing a fluffy dressing gown and slippers that he got from Mr Charming for Christmas five years ago. He seemed much more calm and collected, and a steady smile on his face made me thinking that he might have overdosed his incense sticks fumes. But he seemed to be also happy to see me and at the same time, not surprised at all. Maybe he had been also thinking of Yesterday, of old times when he has become created in my mind, before I offered him an independence from my imagination. Although, he did not seem to get carried away by being an autonomous unit- his apartment was just as tidy as it used to be and his favourite armchair was still in the same place where I put it. He offered me a cup of tea, and almost everything seemed like an old Frank, the Frank of Yesterday. 

The Soul in the Rain

Or maybe we should forget it all. Is it worth it? That is the question which is going to be left on us, with all of the heaviness which it bears. It will hold on to our necks in a manner of trying to bring us down, but we will be smiling, however, smiling, like it could never happen, like we were more than just rugs, meaningless frames for the hanging questions.

 I am not depressed. I just forgot to pick up a part of my soul from the doctor’s waiting room. No one noticed. It keeps hanging there as a coat, or a used umbrella, too old, too scarved for anyone to be tempted to take it with them. It stays still, an anonymous passenger of an eternal carriage, a silent witness of your tears, your dreams, your bruises. I am not getting it back anymore. Let me leave it there, without a trace, with its’ mouth shut in a silent protest. Let me leave it next to you. To listen to your breathe.

 Just like I didn’t notice the piece of the moon, on my way back home. If there is any home, for a soul such fragmented. Sometimes I can see the pieces of souls of others. They pass me on the street, trying to hold my shoulder, desperately glaring for more than just an elusive attention. I walk away. I need to follow the steps of the crowd. Such treading does not allow you to stop, neither to move forward. You can only keep treading, path by path, step by step. Behind the crowd. I always recognized these lost bits of human souls, with the rest of a rope on their necks. Seemingly invisible, they stuck their nails in your chest, hungry for life. I often think about my forgotten piece of soul. What is one day it gets bored of sitting there, in a waiting room, and just like all of these pathetic beings desires to walk out on the street. Maybe it will miss something, and decide to give it a chase. Without a head, my poor piece of soul, will be chasing the forgotten, the forgiven, the buried. Miserable creature of mine, will never find what it is looking for, since it has no eyes to see, no heart to lead it. It will pursue the echoes of my past desires, the tears which has already fallen, the dreams which never dared to be dreamed. Maybe one day it will come to you. But you will never know if it is here, a piece of invisible fabric left in the waiting room to never be reclaimed.

 Sometimes I think about this poor piece of soul of mine. But I shall not engage in a search. I need to keep treading the path, path to path, step to step. I need to move forward with the crowd and carry the unanswered question on my neck. There is nothing left on me, but keep treading. 

The Corner -short story.

  Recently one clever guy I randomly met somehow managed to convince me that publishing my stories on my blog, especially noting I would have shown them to anybody anyway, wouldn't most probably do any harm. So here you go. This story has been written at work on my lunch break a year ago and made me feeling genuinely proud. I spent months reading it and telling myself what a genius I am and what an amazing talent I keep hiding from public. At the meantime, a year goes by, I don't like it anymore. I would write it now. I can't see why would anybody ever write such a thing. 

 I decided not to bother to put a title on it. Anybody curious, enjoy. 

There is this place in Victoria Park, where the historic borough of Tower Hamlets ends and Hackney begins. This place lies in my heart, gently filling the empty spaces with a green carpet of grass, calming down the turning corridors of memories. On that day I got up in a bit of a different manner than I used to and I found a golden ring hidden in my fist. It used to be a belonging of my grandmother, the only thing I got from her and my mother always said it didn’t matter. I had lost it years ago and I liked to believe it had a deeper meaning as we usually try to give value to the unexplainable. I was watching it for a while as it was lying there in my open hand, reflecting the light brought by a strong summer sun through the open doorway. Summer in London always comes as a surprise, but not a miracle kind, rather a magician’s trick when all of the sudden they take a harmony out of their hat instead of a rabbit. It can seem though, more golden than in the rest of the world, shimmering the air with bits of lightening treasure. You can ask this sun for your answers. It’s there for you, responding with thousands of gardens. 

 On that day I walked through the streets like a thought slightly floating on a verge between the wind and the pavement. I boarded the train from the same platform as usual, still holding a golden ring in my fist. There were just three more passengers in the carriage. On my left hand, with a corner of my eye I could see an elderly lady with a face alike to an exotic bird, with a red throat contrasting an ivory smoothness of her nose. Apart from her there were also two men carrying late autumns of their lives inside their tired gazes. One of them, of a tiny posture and short neck turning his head slightly towards his left shoulder, looked up in my eyes and smiled with kindness one can only be offered by a stranger. I was sitting next to the window watching the brown and sad track, the final landscape after everything has turned to dust. Then all of a sudden I heard the an automatic sound and a monotone voice announcing: ‘This train does not terminate at the next station. This train does not stop. It will continue till the final station. This train is for the end.’ I took a look around at other passengers’ faces. They looked calm and untouched, like sketches in the old animation, looking more beautiful to me than ever random strangers could if I only paid my attention to shadows. My destination had obviously changed and I felt embarrassed for travelling with such a big discount. 

 Slowly, I stood up and walked towards the beginning of the carriage, looking at the landscape outside of the window as it was getting closer and closer to my eyes. The train suddenly turned like a carousel keeping on turning around and making the world around all trembling in sights. Then I saw this place once again, the corner of Victoria Park near the station of Hackney Central. My mind entered the tunnel of gobelins filling  me all with smells and flavours I remembered from my dreams. Victoria Park looks the best in the afternoon, these afternoons which were running through the path of my own board game. When I was a child my dad and I used to play 'Wild Geese' which was nothing but a journey on a large cardboard. It was a journey through the hell, at least that was the way I perceived it at that time, because the pond was always deep and the well was always right there, and I had an anxiety of both: highness and darkening. And it always made my dad laugh, because he was never afraid of neither traps nor tricks, neither weeping harmonies nor talking trumpets. Could this train be stopping here? Is it here- the end of the world, the end of the ends, the end of the imagination. Could it be here?

Walking in my shoes

 Alonso liked when I was changing my shoes. There were two full drawers in my room, encouraging to pick one pair, according to the standard of the moment. There were several sets of high heels, inviting to pair them with the right dress, with a matching brooch or a necklace. Some ballerinas able to tell the beginning and the end of spring, and an endless crowd of boots and booties. They were my favourite, playing with the spots of the weather, they were a dress themselves, and a coat, and a warm pillow for the cold, windy mornings, calmly sufficient in their highness. But Alonso never asked me which ones were my favourite. He himself had only one pair of shoes of his own. 

 I was choosing them every morning with care. Polished and smart, but are they matching this fancy cheese you got me today for breakfast? Is it appropriate, is it right, does it suit the story you wrote for me today? Am I a lover or a mother, or a sister full of compassion and understanding, always understanding, cause that was a part of the deal to always understand.

 These days my distinguished high heels remained mostly locked up in a drawer, too uncomfortable, so in contrary to comfort. It is awful to live out of comfort, as you said, not having a stable job, an own flat, and how on Earth can people decide to live without a car. I have a bike, said I. My cycling shoes, sleeping in the upper drawer. You wanted to give me a helmet.

 My ankle booties, dark suede, not very suitable for the vegan pizza you ordered, no cheese, full of lettuce. I'm trying to hide my feet under the chair.

 It was problematic having picked a wrong pair of shoes. It was making me feel for my poor Alonso as it was pushing us both out of ordeal. That's the way it was meant to be- challenging! Just as challenging it can be to anticipate the theme of tonight's show. You see, it was the most difficult to choose the right shoes for the night. One needed to carefully listen to the previously provided instructions, spread into parts of suggestions and marmours, several glances outside of the window. It had to do with accuracy and most valued discretion, simply to never, ever, reveal the rules of the game. It could have become really problematic to Alonso if I suddenly came out of my role. Because it could lead, at the very end, to him, to have to take his shoes off as well. It was something I couldn't allow to happen. 

- Let's go to Amsterdam! Let's go to Victoria and then we can catch the next coach. It takes only couple of hours, we can sleep on the way. 

 In these moments he always said he didn't understand. It was the result of wearing the wrong shoes, that's why it was so important, his eyes were letting me know, it mattered just so much to pick them carefully. According to these shoes we could plan our life, expected at the train station at the right time with the estimated amount of luggage, with the hair perfectly cut and stylised. This future couldn't stand a whisper. 

 In the lower drawer was the place of rest for the shoes never meant to wear anymore. Amongst them, a set of sassy ballerinas, two coloured and embellished by a small detail, nicely lying next to each other on the bottom of the dust. These shoes were forbidden. They were the shoes of a girlfriend of another man. 

 There was another pair hidden deep in the corner. I was watching them sometimes from a distance. But it was me who was reluctant to take them out. These shoes were saying 'Adieu' and I didn't like goodbyes. The goodbye was not a part of the deal. It was not meant to be the part of the story. 

- Why don't we just find some nice place? Somewhere rather east or south, listen to the music or take some drugs or what so ever, start a day every morning with a tea by the window. 

- What do you mean? I didn't get it. 

 Today I was walking in my shoes. I passed a narrow, almost empty street and jumped over the uneven parts of the pavement. I didn't take them off when I came back home, to get a tea and stay indefinitely at my table. I didn't know if they suited the weather, or where they too warm for this temperature, too high to bring a comfort. No one would tell me to take these shoes off. They are for real. 

The Resurrection

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No matter how long it takes, how many other things does it take, I always miss my blog. And I almost let it die, or maybe it could have looked like that, but after all I am here, standing on my feet. 

 After my grandfather died everything seemed so bleached. Everything I was meant to say, and meant to write, and every story I worked on seemed to be irrelevant. Pointless. Many words are created never to be published. But this is a life of words, they live as long as we need them. I spent this time walking around the streets, translating in my mind the same poem on an on, again. On these days I almost forgot my English, the one I used as a creative force and I came to the point, where every next step was only a running in the circle. 

 But yesterday it was my birthday. One of not very cheerful ones but therefore quite refreshing. And I would like to thank everybody, who were still checking this page, during all this time. You can now lean back and prepare for a resurrection. Monkey Seduction is back. To start once again.

 Let me tell you a story of an incredible land. Once upon the time there was a kingdom peaceful as an infinite sea, established like an old wise tree and untouched like an image on a sand. The wind was so slow and gentle, that even a feather was staying safe in constancy. The colours were so enriched with light that the whole landscape seemed to be a painting on the porcelain. It's name was Gheborhgia, the land of old sages as chronicles said. But the land by itself was older than all of the chronicles and all of the books ever written, and all of the times when people learn how to put their memory to the paper. Gheborghia was inhabited by Tafoons, forrest creatures with featutres of old willows and three ears, so the third one allowed them to hear voices from inside of the earth. They were big and strong, but also calmed like an old river and able to answer any question, and their spirits were totally free, without any earthly attachment.

 Ladies and Gentlemen!
  I think I've just seen a mark of a lost human being stepping on this blog. So, if there's somebody interested, let's get it started! My first literary piece, created with a help of a best editor ever!!
You, lost creature, enjoy!

The Theatre Lord
The ships won't let me down. They won't let me down tonight, now the sea is calm and the air full of sleepy wishes. I can hear the siren's voice and I know that I will be watching these ships until they sail away to be lost behind the horizon. As of now nothing can follow them anymore, no homecomings, no spooks nor impotent curses. Everything will sink. And I will be waiting here with my cup of tea, watching through the window of the atelier as the ships sail away and their sails are supported not by wind but by human misery.
The theatre lord always had a weakness for ships. On the day that I came here for the first time, there was a little paper ship on his desk. Although the wind from the sea seemed to call to it through the open window, the little ship stayed unaffected, unsinkable, confident within its own paper construction. I asked the theatre lord to make one, just like it, for me. He smiled and said
"If one day you write a letter to me, I will make of it a ship that will be able to sail across the oceans."
He always wore a heavy, woollen sweater, in late spring as well, when in that port, even the wind is already warm. The window in his atelier was always open, because of the strong cigarettes he smoked. I would see him very often in those days, passing by his atelier on every possible occasion looking into his magical world, through the chink in his door. Just one glance at his cherry coloured sweater, the full ashtray, the papers covering his desk, no matter which piece of this picture I saw, it always changed my day. It was as if there existed an other world, beside the real one, an innerworld, independent and unconquered.
After several weeks I started to visit the theatre lord in his atelier. Others were afraid of him, but I never understood why. Getting closer to him, I started to perceive him as someone else. Someone other than merely a man seen through a chink in some door. He had a friendly smile and vibrant, black eyes, which revealed the innate shyness he was learning to deal with as he grew old. I liked to look at him when he was tired. Only then was it possible to notice the grey hair on his head, just as it though it changed colour with his mood. He would close his eyes then and the eyes became immersed in the swollen edges of his eyelids. Then, deep and wide wrinkles appeard on his face. They were of a different kind from those I'd ever seen before. They were actually thriving as they left the corners of his eyes, like fast brush strokes. Touching them was like playing a harp, or like gently touching a painting, feeling the shapes on the canvas under your fingers, careful not to distract the work of the master. Sometimes he smiled sadly. Then the wrinkles seemed to smile with him, creating a nostalgic composition where the brightness of his face contrasted with his tiredness.

The hands of the theatre lord were as though hidden behind glass and untouched by time. They were perfectly white and smooth, with long and slender fingers, which always made me think of an ancient sculpture, perfectly beautiful. I asked him once if he played the piano, but he answered me simply, as usual, with his mysterious smile.
Four years passed this way. Four years with the theatre lord. Falling down and rising again, spending manic nights talking and watching sea troughs through the window. I opened a magic box of his world and soon I understood that I wanted to stay there forever.
But I didn't notice the torn playbill or the empty cup. And I didn't see the suitcase, packed for a journey, or his face, when for the last time he watched the sea from his atelier. Or the ship which took my letter across the ocean.
So, if it ever happens to you, as it happened to me, to love the theatre lord, then do as I did, take your tea and sit in an atelier where you can let your gaze escort the ship, and wait. One day he will come back and on his desk there will be standing a little paper ship which will never sink.